


Leave It To Ruin

by WetSammyWinchester



Series: Saudade [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Wincestmas, Alcohol, Angst, Graffiti, M/M, Memories of their time apart, Post-Stanford, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 05:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13288407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Dean had a life that went on without Sam. Four years made up of small moments like this. And Sam wasn’t part of it.





	Leave It To Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [largoindminor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/gifts).



> Written for wincestmas for the lovely Ann. Song lyrics are from Psalm 40:2 by The Mountain Goats.

_Each morning new_  
_Each day shot through_  
_With all the sharp, small shards of shrapnel_  
_That seem to burst out of me and you_

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Dean pulled the car over on the gravel shoulder and threw it into park, while Sam stirred out of his sleep, cheek pressed against the cold leather of the seat.

The dusk around them was settling from blue to indigo and the clapboard of the old grange in front of the car glowed white against the blackberry bushes that surrounded it.

“What is this?” Sam’s voice was rough with sleep as he tried to catch up. Driving away from St Louis, they were avoiding the eye of the Missouri State Patrol, making slow time on the two-lane back country roads.

Dean didn’t respond except to grab his flashlight and step out of the car. Sam watched through the windshield with some irritation when Dean didn’t look back, stepping carefully over the vines that had overrun the wooden steps. With a sigh, he found his own flashlight and followed behind.

_LeRoy Grange Hall. Established 1885._

The place was deserted and didn’t look like it had been occupied in years, maybe going back decades. Dozens of small grange halls were tucked along these back roads in the Midwest, some still in operation and some not, victims of the dwindling farming communities they meant to serve. Sam looked up at the plain wooden facade, wondering what was so special to Dean about this one.

“Dean, wait,” he whispered loudly as Dean slipped inside the front door.

The inside of the building was too dark in the fading dusk and dried fall leaves had blown in from the outside, scattering along the wooden floor boards and into corners of the room. The place was small - no more than a thousand square feet. A few broken tables and chairs lay discarded in the middle alongside empty beer cans, broken bottles of Strawberry Hill, and discarded spray paint cans. Sam was about to ask what the hell they were doing here when he saw what Dean’s flash light was trained on.

“Son of a bitch,” his brother said softly. “It’s still here.”

There was spray paint everywhere on the white wall. Loops of red and blue and yellow were intersected with the outline of black letters and symbols. Sam stepped up next to Dean and pointed his own flashlight on the scrawls.

“What is it, some kind of sigils?”

Dean looked over as if surprised to see Sam next to him. “What? No, nothing like that.” He reached out his hand to run it along one section of graffiti and a smile crossed his face. “I forgot all about this place.”

When Dean looked back, he saw the confusion in his brother’s eyes and shrugged. 

“About six months after you left for Stanford, Dad and I came here for a case. I hung out a few times with some of the locals.” He kicked a can of used spray paint and it rolled across the floor to rest against the graffiti wall and shook his head. “Surprised this place didn’t burn to the ground years ago.”

Looking around at the dust and trash, Sam’s stomach twisted to think of Dean hanging out here, smoking and drinking with strangers. 

_Dean had a life that went on without him. Four years made up of small moments like this. And Sam wasn’t part of it._

Neither liked to talk about those things. Sam at Stanford and Dean hunting. Easier to pretend those times and the roads they took away from each other, the people they met during that time, didn’t exist. He wished they had kept driving past this place.

Sam was turning to go when he saw it. Carved letters on a wall. Not painted on like the other bits but gouged into the wood wall with a sharp-edged knife, and he reached his fingers out to trace the edges of those raw letters. 

_**DW** _

“Look at that,” Dean said, a soft laugh from his lips as he came up behind Sam’s shoulder. His fingers grazed over Sam’s fingers where they touched the letters. “It’s still here.”

Sam felt his heart move sideways and thought of other sets of initials left all over the Midwest - carved in cafeteria tables and tree trunks and even in the back window well of the car out front - but those letters were always in a pair. Not like this. Not alone.

He reached down to pick up one of the spray cans, giving it a shake and hearing the thin clack-clack-clack of the ball bearing inside, mixing up whatever small amount of paint remained.

Dean’s face scrunched up. “Sam, what are you—“

Sam trained his flashlight on the wall and he raised the spray can to paint four red letters over whatever history was written underneath it.

_**DW SW** _

Sam threw the can to the side after it spit out the last of its paint, his fingers covered in splotchy red blowback. He walked over to Dean whose lips were open as he considered what was written on the wall and grabbed his shoulder. 

“Let’s get back on the road. We need to get to Wichita tonight.”


End file.
